It was, of course, more isolation, but Toshiko was glad of that.  There was even a possibility that the emperor had become considerate of her feelings and suggested the change.

That night, she spread her bedding and set her headrest so that she faced the veranda.  The weather was still cold, and the shutters were closed at night, but she propped one open a little — finding the catch already unlocked — so that she could watch the pale moon rise above the roofs of the palace buildings.  Then she undressed to her under robe, something she had not done for a long time, and lay down beneath a double layer of quilts.

The moon was very beautiful this spring night, a silver disk that floated along the roof ridge in the starry blackness.  She remembered how she had sat with her mother and sister, composing poems about the moon.  They had not been very good poems, but she had felt cherished and happy then.  She let her tears blur both moon and stars.  It was a rare luxury, this open grieving.  For too long a time she had had to stifle her sadness, always afraid it would be noted, or that the call for her would come while her eyes were swollen from weeping.  Tonight it was too late for a summons from the emperor.

After a while, she stopped weeping and dabbed away the tears.  Somewhere to the east of her, the doctor would also have gone to bed.  Perhaps he, too, was looking at the same moon.  Perhaps he thought of her as she thought of him.  She imagined their thoughts meeting among the stars like winged fairies or like the herdsman and the weaver maid who met to make love only once a year.  Oh, she would give everything for one such meeting.

The emperor had called her His Moon Princess that first time, plying her with pretty stories and pictures like the child she had been until He had taken her in His arms.  Sometimes she thought she hated Him.

Her moist cheeks began to itch and she rubbed them dry with her sleeve.  Children may cry, but not grown women.  She closed her eyes with a sigh.

It was much quieter here than in the great room beyond the door.  She was farther from her companions, whose dim shapes, covered with piles of bedding or robes, used to breathe and rustle until the darkness seemed like a huge beehive.

As she dozed off, a faint sound, barely noted, niggled at the remnants of her consciousness.  A door closing somewhere?  Someone on her way to the privy?

Walking on gravel?  There was no gravel on the way to the privy, just the smooth boards of the corridor.  Old buildings creaked.  Wondering if the new palace would have fewer creaks than this one, she fell asleep.

And dreamed. Some creature hissed and scrabbled in her dream.  It tugged at her quilts.  The cat, she thought with a drowsy smile.  Mikan, the one-eyed cat.  The doctor’s one-eyed cat.  What gentle hands he had.  His hand on hers, soothing the hurt from Mikan’s scratch —

She came fully awake when the hand — a cold hand — parted her gown and touched her bare skin.  A dark shape hovered above her, murmuring, searching with that impatient hand, breathing hotly in her face.  For a moment she thought it was the emperor and moved sleepily to accommodate Him, but then the strange scent told her that this was not the emperor and she cried out.

It was only a soft cry and stifled instantly by the man’s hand on her lips and his hissed “Ssh!”

She resisted, scrambling away, frightened now, her eyes wide, yet unseeing in the darkness.  He snatched at her arm and whispered, “Don’t be afraid, Lady Toshiko.  I did not mean to startle you.”

In her confusion, she tried to account for his presence. Had the doctor sent a message by this stranger?  “Who are you?” she managed, pulling her cover closer.  “What do you want?”

“I’m Fujiwara Munetada.  Don’t you remember me?”

She shook her head.  “No.  What do you want?  You’re not supposed to be here.”

Their furtive whispering made the encounter strangely intimate.  Then Toshiko remembered the questing hand on her breasts and was afraid again.  But perhaps this Fujiwara nobleman had made a mistake and come to the wrong bed.  She said so, and he chuckled softly.

“No mistake, my lovely.  Come a little closer so I can see your beautiful face in the moonlight.  I have dreamed of this moment ever since I saw you dancing.”

Toshiko silently cursed the circle-dancing excursion.  “You must leave instantly,” she hissed.  “If you don’t, I shall cry for help.  Surely you don’t wish His Majesty’s anger to fall on you.”

“B-but,” he stammered, “d-didn’t you get my letters?  Didn’t you w-wish me to come?”

“I have not accepted letters from anyone, and I certainly did not wish this.  Go!  Now!  Before it is too late.”

There was a moment’s silence.  Then, to her astonishment, he said, “No, I won’t be tricked.”  Crawling closer on his knees, he said in a low voice, “You are beautiful, but your manners leave something to be desired.  Come, making noise will do you no good.  These things are much better carried on in silence.  Especially in your case.”

There was a touch of menace in his tone.  She suppressed her panic.  He was right.  She could not afford the scandal of being found with a man in her bed.

It struck her that her sudden move to this room had been Lady Sanjo’s idea, and that this visit was planned.  While she arrived at this knowledge, he was coolly divesting himself of his robe and untying is trousers.

“Don’t,” she pleaded as steadily as she could.  “Please don’t do this.  It will destroy me.”

It did not work.  Laughing softly, he slipped under her cover and reached for her.  She found herself grasped against a lean and muscular body that was heavily perfumed.  Nausea welled up and she gagged, barely controlling the urge to vomit.  Using all her strength, she pushed him away.  But he was young and much stronger and heavier than she.  Chuckling again deep in his throat, he pinned her down and forced a knee between her legs.

Toshiko was seized by a furious and desperate anger.  When he positioned himself, breathing heavily now, and then raised himself to enter her, she screamed and struck his face hard with her fist.  He fell back and staggered up with a muffled cry.

A moment later, the door flew open, and noise and lights invaded the eave chamber.  Women’s startled faces, ghostly white in the candle light, peered in at the pair of them.  A young man was standing above her, holding his nose and staring in disbelief at the blood that dripped down between his fingers, staining his white under robe, and falling on Toshiko’s bare thighs.

Sobbing, Toshiko snatched a robe and crawled away from him.

Lady Sanjo pushed past the others.  “What is going on here?” she cried.  The answer was obvious — except for the disgust and anger on the young nobleman’s face.  He glared at the women as he reached for his trousers.

Lady Sanjo was the very picture of shock and outrage.  “Lady Toshiko, what have you done?” she demanded.

Toshiko said, “I’ve never seen him before.  I woke up, and there he was.”  She added angrily, “Is that why you wanted me to sleep here tonight?”

Shocked silence met the accusation.

“What is this?”  Fujiwara Munetada had managed to put on his trousers and coat.  Now he glared at Lady Sanjo.  “This is outrageous!”  He mumbled through the wad of tissue pressed to his nose.  “One expects better from someone of your age and breeding.  I shall not forget this trick.”  And with that, he flounced out into the moonlit courtyard. The outer gate slammed behind him.

“I . . . I don’t understand,” stammered Lady Sanjo, taking in the fact that her trick had sadly, and perhaps disastrously, miscarried.  “He is the regent’s son and must have lost his way.  How embarrassing for him.  No wonder he blames his mistake on others.”

The ladies exchanged glances before drifting away to discuss the incident behind her back.